


(Close Ain't Close Enough) Till We Cross The Line

by orphan_account



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, and it gets past it pretty fast at the start, carlos is a smoulder-bunny, dany is a stoic, dicks get sucked, tiny bit harsh about max verstappen possibly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 10:28:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7311274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos is happy to have a new teammate, Dany is ...less excited about the situation. Carlos works on changing that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Close Ain't Close Enough) Till We Cross The Line

**Author's Note:**

> There's this one interview I can't seem to find again where Carlos is like 'I am really happy with this situation, it's so great having Dany we can push for a better constructor's result and I feel way better' and idk this happened. 
> 
> Title from the ebulliently horny cheer-fest that is Ariana Grande's 'Into You'

Carlos doesn’t even think, he’s dialling Dany’s number almost before he’s hung up the phone from Marko - he cannot _wait_ to speak to him, this is going to be _so good._ Thank god.

The phone _blorps_ annoyingly at him and he stares at it for a second before redialling.

Oh god, it’s been so bad this year, it’s been _so bad_ and he thought he had to stick it out, with the feeling stressed every race weekend and a bit sick every time he had to head up to the factory. He’d thought he’d just get a new guy at the end of the season - which was fine, he likes Mitch but this is better than anything he could’ve hoped for. 2016 is saved and he gets Dany, this is _amazing._

His phone _blorps_ again and he comes down from his excitement enough to realise it’s not quite dialling through, moves closer to the window - stupid thick London walls. Nothing happens again, the call isn’t connecting.

He stops for a second. Maybe Dany’s on a plane? He can’t be, though; Carlos was just whatsapping him about Game of Thrones. Maybe his battery’s dead but Dany hardly ever lets that happen.

He’s staring at his phone when it rings again and he’s answered it before he’s even seen the called ID- “Hey Carlos,”

“Oh- hello Fernando, is good to hear you,” He’s not lying, even if it wasn’t who he was expecting.

“Carlos, I’m sorry about all this- is hard, you deserve better.” Carlos is completely thrown - Fernando sounds like he’s discussing a funeral.

“Is good -” he falters slightly, “I get Dany, we race well, this year goes ok.”

Fernando huffs a sort of surprised noise down the phone, “I… ok, I did not know this.”

“You did not know the change?” This conversation has gone enormously weird, Carlos feels. He has the slight sensation of being told off.

“Carlos, I did not know you were happy - for Dany this is hell, no?” This… had not occurred to him. He’d been so consumed in the horror of his own garage, the tension and firings and sniping and rants and the sick anxiety about team orders and whether he was _actually_ going to have to phone his dad to fight Max’s dad in the car park like a primary school football brawl.

“Of course- has been hell for me, no?” Carlos is suddenly quite close to tears, the relief from earlier giving way to the reality of how _fucking stressed_ he has been.

Fernando makes another huffing noise, “Is good you are positive. But be careful- and be hungry, is you who should be there.”

That wasn’t even something he’d considered. It’d been a done deal with a flexible timeline all along, after all. Carlos doesn’t know what to say to the idea, hums a noncommital noise instead.

“You should be angry more, Carlos. Pride is important,” He hasn’t really thought about pride, barely scraped through dignity as much as fingertip-clutched survival in a whirlwind he didn’t understand, while very literally driving at 300kp/h. He just… wanted a hug.

His silence doesn’t deter Fernando (to be fair, Carlos is not sure what would) “And you must beat Dany, even if he is hurting. Don’t be too nice, Carlos. You have to do this for yourself.”

There are so many things that Carlos admires about the older driver. So many parts of him that can’t believe he’s being given a pep-talk phonecall by _Fernando Alonso_ and yet also Carlos sometimes thinks _but I know better than that_ and _is that how you end up the best-paid driver in the third-worst car?_ and _I am not a miniature version of you, thank god._

“Is good, we can get good points, Dany will help with the car,” which, to be fair, an actual meerkat would be more useful than it’s been, “Is not bad thing for us, just different.”

“Bad for him; don’t let them think of you as a punishment. You should get it eventually, you know - is not right.”

He’s glad Fernando believes in him. He doesn’t honestly know if he wants it - Max is on, what, five years? He likes the guy plenty but he can’t go back into anything like this year. And actually he wants this conversation to stop now, it’s ruining his morning, “Thanks man. This year first though, we see later.”

He briefly wonders why they’re not just speaking Spanish like the whole thing wouldn’t be infinitely less awkward but he thinks maybe it’s emotionally easier this way, “See you in Barcelona. Home Grand prix, good feelings!”

Carlos returns to staring at his phone, considers trying Dany again. Good feelings. Definitely going to find some of them again by the time he gets to Italy tomorrow.

\----

It’s already better. He walks into the factory and it’s not that it feels instantly _good_ but that the dark clouds are gone - Matas looks lighter, more relaxed, they can talk about the car without it feeling like espionage, they get good work done for what feels like the first time in forever.

He’s feeling so good about it, so _lightened_ that he doesn’t quite hear why he’s being called into a meeting room, just blithely wanders in with a grin he can’t suppress on his face.

For exactly the length of time it takes him to sit down, look across the table and see Dany.

Carlos thinks about Dementors, except that’s not really fair because Dany isn’t _trying_ to suck every morsel of happiness in the world into a howling, desperate void it’s just that looking him in the face is like that first hideous glance in the mirror of a really paranoid, blackout hangover that Carlos has only given himself once and never wants to again.

It’s harrowing. Carlos is harrowed. He didn’t really know what that meant until this second, when he’d enjoyed a better morning at work than he has had for _so long_ and now he will be consumed in fire whilst being repeatedly flogged by the chains of whatever the fuck level sadness gives you _that_ expression.

He’s staring, which is making everything actively worse but he can’t stop. He’d thought _he_ looked broken, last week, before the switch. He’s got so used to feeling sad and hopeless and defeated that he’d not entertained the idea that anyone could actually look _worse_ but here Dany is and wow.

“Hello” oh god, his voice is a croak like he’s just spent quite a lot of time crying pretty intensely. Carlos knows Russians can cry, has seen Dany do it once or twice in the past but it’s not like… like, Carlos can cry over anything- a really good pizza, it’d be pretty much illegal if he _didn’t_ cry after Spain suffered a sports defeat, Mustafah dying. Not like that, though. There’s crying and then there’s sobbing your life force out and it’s pretty clear which one happened here.

Carlos feels himself involuntarily shuffle in his seat, like he’s being buffeted by the force of his team-mate’s sadness. This is not quite what he’d hoped for.

Someone is talking and Carlo’s mouth is still open in the half-greeting he’d got to before he was physically assaulted by emotional torment. He’s thinking about Sochi and being buried under barriers.

\------

He lets it carry on for a working week. Dany’s bleak stare and borderline monosyllabism, Jenson’s increasingly concerned texts _to Carlos_ \- do McLaren not have things to _do_ in their factory or what? Everyone is very keen on telling him what to do and how he can usurp Max, how he can’t show mercy at this point, how he needs to keep the flame burning.

All Carlos wanted was a quiet life that gave him a chance to develop for the rest of the season. A sophomore year, feet-finding and some facial hair experimentation.

He’s grateful for his dad, who doesn’t think he should enter into an all-out war with his former teammate via kicking his current teammate under a bus, setting fire to the bus and driving the whole thing into the sea. Which was roughly the gist of what Nico suggested, he thinks. He was trying to say “I don’t actually think anyone envies the way things work in your garage” but he lost the will to do anything other than leave the F1 Drivers Whatsapp group and pretend it was an accident.

On the Friday he decides he can’t take it anymore. He’s not _going_ to take it anymore, because he didn’t survive all that shit at the start of the year for this other kind of shit to take over.

“Fuck,” he begins, “this stuff” - the end gets a bit muffled, because he has grabbed Dany from behind and the Russian’s shoulder-blade is sticking into his face.

Dany doesn’t exactly stiffen in his grasp but he doesn’t relax any, either, making a sort of uncertain “err” noise.

“Stop it, stop being so _fucking miserable_ to be here with me,” Carlos knows he sounds pouty, gives zero fucks about it, “Am happy you are here. Missed you and is better now.”

The long point of contact between them, Carlos plastered against Dany’s back, is trapping their bodyheat under the Italian spring. They stay like that for a bit, Dany not responding verbally, although leaning very, very slightly into Carlos physically and with one hand on the table in front of him.

“I like you here. We can have a good year.” He carries on holding Dany, primarily for himself - the Russian isn’t objecting and Carlos needs it, this tight, peaceful contact.

Dany lets go of a long-held breath and Carlos feels long, slightly clammy fingers wrap over one of his own hands.

\-------

Spain is a disaster. Well, it’s not - Carlos is having a great race and he _blows it away._ He’s nailing it, feeling absolutely fantastic in the car- comfortable, expert - he’s going to kiss Matas. Twice. He would literally suck his dick with joy if it didn’t probably count as some sort of breach of his contract’s conduct clause to tackle his engineer to the floor of the garage and blow him.

But Dany doesn’t look like he’s considering blowing anyone other than possibly his own head off with a shotgun. Which is fair enough, under the circumstances but a bit of a drain on the great self-defensive not-looking-at-the-podium buoyancy Carlos had built up.

Carlos tries to ignore him, fights with Fernando over the post-race interviews. He’s back in a really, really excellent mood by the time he’s circling over to the Toro Rosso motorhomes. P6! Fucking P6!

He’s got about 45 minutes before his dad takes him for a celebratory dinner and he has to start weak protests about trying to keep to race diets whilst his sister rolls her eyes at him in a way he _swears_ she has somehow learnt from Alonso. Which is just enough time to shower, tweet a bit and get dressed. Winning.

He barges into Dany’s motorhome, instead, because there is something wrong with him. He decided it partway through the race and he’s feeling really good about even this.

“Hey!” Dany is sitting in the dark with his phone, as all healthily even-keeled people do, with their non-broken psychology that’s totally safe to leave alone.

“Hi?” Well, verbal responses are good. And Carlos has been thinking about _hakuna matata._ It’s a wonderful phrase.

He clambers into Dany’s lap, the Russian making no effort to stop him - his hands grab at Carlos a little, like an anchor, “I am happy,” Carlos announces, “and I am going to blow you.”

He knows it’s not quite the world’s best practice to announce these things- but if he gave Dany the choice he’d make exactly the same slightly panicked noises he is now, so similar effect. And this way he can grab Dany’s chin and stare at him with one of his best smouldering looks, “I am happy with _you._ ”

Dany’s response is a clear-eyed blink and a low, soft growling noise. Which is unexpected but Carlos isn’t oblivious to the fact he’s quite good-looking, takes it for the permission it is and grinds down a little on Dany’s lap, pleased to find he’s hard.

(Carlos is _reasonably_ sure, from their earlier years, that Dany also suffers from misery-induced horniness, something they’d explored a couple of fumbly times, but who knows what changes)

He doesn’t have time to muck around, so wriggles lithely off his teammate’s lap, until he’s kneeling and yanks Dany’s thermals aside, his heatproofs already discarded by the door. There’s really nothing good about a post-race, pre-shower Formula 1 driver’s crotch but Carlos is in far too good a mood for sweat and pheremones to put him off, so he puts all his glee, his actual _joy_ from the race into swallowing Dany’s cock in one quick movement, sucking hard.

Dany makes an almost agonised noise and Carlos smiles as much as he can, with a cock in his mouth, brings a hand up to scrape his short nails across Dany’s inner thigh and make him moan like he’s breaking in a good way. This is going to be short and messy and intense - Carlos close to gagging himself in his enthusiasm and Dany as subject to the post-race adrenaline as any of them, his body clearly desperate to funnel it into anything other than depression.

He gets a grip on his breathing, concentrates and manages to take his teammate’s dick far enough down his throat that his nose is nestled in off-blonde curls, his jaw starting to ache in a really satisfying way, like he’s mastered this the same way he mastered the car. Yes, it’s hard and it slightly hurts and it’s all too intense to really think about what you’re doing before you’re doing it but he’s going to be driver of _this_ fucking race, if nothing else.

He flicks his eyes up to meet Dany’s and he knew it, he knew that would be what pushed him over the edge - the total fucking romantic. Carlos lets himself gag a bit as he pulls back, swallowing and rocks back to a crouch, watching Dany come down from it, dick still half-hard and wet, his throat flushed and flung back.

“I steal your clothes, need to go meet my dad. See you in Faenza?”

Dany coughs, makes an ‘mmm’ noise and waves him off with a shy smile, once Carlos has finished searching for anything remotely plausibly his size in the Russian’s pile of clothes and Dany’s rearranged his thermals to be… there’s nothing dignified about that wet patch but a bit less pornographically debauched.

Carlos finds himself humming _‘It means no worries, for the rest of your days’_ as he heads to eat half his weekly caloric allowance in glorious, glorious _patatas bravas._

\----------

He doesn’t even _like_ Monaco and it’s fantastic. Actually fantastic. He decides to do some ballsy interviews - fuck them all, maybe Rosberg will fucking stop trying to life-coach him or whatever it is, doesn’t he have an actual child for that?

He leaves Dany alone before the race - they see each other, in the garage and around the motorhomes and Dany seems less criminally depressed. Maybe minor infractions depressed. Got-off-with-a-stern-warning depressed.

Carlos is buzzing. Dany works hard at the factory, knows _so much_ about what works on a car, even in his Soviet Zombie mode and it’s so good for the team, gives him so much to work from. They went out for pizza last week - Carlos _really_ needs to think about getting back on the diet - and it was actually quite nice, the Russian’s gloominess returning to his standard level of Ural bleakness, rather than anything that might need an urgent psychological intervention.

He wasn’t really surprised that Dany offered him a place at his flat, for the Monaco race. His teammate appears to have pulled far enough out of his all-consuming funk that he’s worked out he ought to be nice to Carlos, albeit in a confused way and offering him a place to crash is an easy one. Carlos isn’t 100% sure that it’s anything other than that and doesn’t care, because it’s nice that Dany’s making an effort.

He doesn’t accept the offer, books a hotel. It would feel like line-crossing and he’s more into kerb-riding right now.

Carlos fucking _bosses_ the race. Ok, not quite P6 and technically a fall from his qualifying position but still; as he thinks he heard Jolyon say once, _banging._ It is all coming up Sainz Jr.

Daniil isn’t in the garage afterwards, which makes sense because he’s probably having his head bitten off by a parade of FIA officials and Red Bulll “family.” Carlos waits around a bit, then goes for a coffee with Hulkenberg and Wehrlein, which is actually really fun.

And then he checks the message that Dany sent his address through on and clambers into the nearest cab, until he’s standing in the rain pressing a buzzer in what he likes to imagine is a smoulderingly romantic, Latin style. His shirt is soaked, his hair is soaked, he’s hoping this waterproof phone cover actually is.

“Err, hello?”

“Let me in it’s fucking soaking” Carlos is pushing on the door almost before he hears the buzz, taking the stairs two steps at a time as water sluices off him.

He undoes his shirt on the last flight of stairs, leaves it hanging open with droplets of water trailing down his chest hair, finger-combs his hair back and vaguely wishes he’d got a rose to stick in his teeth when Dany opens the door.

“Uhm.”

“I said it’s fucking soaking,” Carlos pushes past him, “Hey man, is it ok if I stay?”

“Do you even have your phone charger?” Dany is looking at him critically but with an amused expression, for someone who’s had a shit day and whose comparatively golden teammate is now dripping on their kitchen floor.

“Nope- you’re on Android though?” Carlos sets about removing his shirt entirely, unceremoniously chucking it on the back of Dany’s sofa and then emptying his pockets onto the coffee table before toeing off his shoes and sending his jeans the same way.

Once he’s 90% naked, he sits down and pats the space next to him like this isn’t Dany’s apartment, gives his pyjama-bottoms-clad teammate just enough time to be settled before straddling his lap, looking him straight in the eye and saying, with all the genuine care and emotion he can put into it, “Am glad you’re my teammate. Want to come all over you.”

Dany’’s eyes go a bit dark with lust - and in the end, it’s both of them that come across his chest, Carlos’ hand round their dicks. It makes the sofa a bit uncomfortably damp to sleep on, after he demurs either Dany’s bed or the guest room in favour of feeling _seriously, extremely satisfied._

\-------

He elbows Fernando sadly after the Canadian race. No time for a roasting. Carlos is thinking about hot chocolate and a roaring fire that has nothing to do with his compatriot’s raging, blazing pride. Things are great in his world; he’s got points, Dany finished a race, he's extremely optimistic about the possibility of coming pretty hard later.

Dany actually comes to him, “Do you want to,” the Russian makes a vague hand gesture that means absolutely nothing. And yes, Carlos does but he wants Dany to say it.

He makes his eyes the biggest, most innocent he can - his true Disney Prince look, as an ex helpfully identified it, “Oh, sure - want to what?”

Dany blushes, smiling, “Err. Fuck?”

Carlos keeps the Disney look up, “A little bit much!” Before Dany can totally stiffen and collapse in on himself, Carlos steams on, “How about I suck your dick and we see where we go?”

He is so pleased he went to the bother of booking somewhere with a comedy rug in front of a fire, when Dany comes in his mouth and then returns the favour with studied, incredible intensity that has Carlos writhing. Dany pins his hips down with a strong hand, long fingers curved elegantly over Carlos’ hip and something about the cool alabaster of Dany’s skin on his burning, race-punished, fire-heated stomach muscles nearly pushes him right over the edge.

In the end he snarls at Dany to touch his ass - he wants him to think about it, to think about having his cock in Carlos, think about getting to come inside him while Carlos is panting and hot and needy. It takes about 40 seconds of Dany gently, tentatively massaging his hole with a sweat-and-spit slicked fingertip for him to come the hardest he has in fucking _ages,_ all over the Russian’s face.

It’s _so good._

\--------

Carlos makes Dany come for dinner with him in Baku. It’s basically Russia or something? They speak Russian, anyway - much more than they speak Spanish.

Actually it’s more accurate to say that Carlos makes Dany take him on a date in Baku. Even if his teammate keeps it predictably casual, dress-wise (Carlos is going to _burn_ that plaid shirt) whilst the Spaniard goes for his absolute tightest, most ok-I-keep-fucking-my-diet-but-I’m-getting-kind-of-buff-as-a-consequence shirt, open necked to show some chest.

What? He likes it. He _knows_ other people like it.

He isn’t that crazy about stuffed cabbage leaves but he’s into the thing with the aubergines and show him the 21-year-old male who doesn’t like a big plate of meaty kebab goodness and Carlos will respect your wide-ranging worldly experience, because he’s a nice boy, who will still think you’re wrong. “Is this like Russian food?”

Dany pulls a face- “You’ve been to Russia, Chili,” he looks amused, though, in a better mood than he has been since the change, “Mmm, it’s like some of Russia? Not the North - and not like Moscow, we have shit food there. But some bits, I guess. Lot of places have _tolma._ ”

Carlos thinks that’s the cabbage thing and dimly remembers something about the Russian army getting paid in cabbages one time. He must redouble his efforts to feed up his teammate, he decides, which is definitely why he orders some more of the spicy flat meat thing.

Dany looks at home in Baku, as much as he looks like nobody there. Carlos, comparatively, feels like he blends in well if he could just stop being kind of… _surprised_ by the place, because it’s hot but not like Spain is hot and it smells different and feels overwhelmingly alien, in the way that places just-familiar-enough to make you half-think you understand them can. And he’s read the internet, he’s not… he has more of a problem with Bahrain but this is pretty bad, his sister keeps haranguing him about it.

They have a very nice time. He makes Dany get the bill, which he does without blinking; it’s a message - _I like you, I like you, I like you, I want you here._ Because he really does - everything’s just been so fucking _easy,_ the odd patch of team bad luck aside and Carlos feels like he’s growing, like Dany’s a ...ok, he didn’t even drink with dinner, no need to think about his teammate as a fertiliser. That goes weird places fast.

They wander back towards the hotel and Carlos twines his arms round Dany’s neck in the lift, purrs at the Russian until he kisses him, tender and appreciative. They hold hands, a little shyly, until they part ways at the door of Carlos’ room.

\-------

He’s a little bit hopeful Dany will do well here, quietly relieved when they actually have a fight in qualifiying, only a _bit_ sore that he loses it. Then the race is a massive pile of shit that turns out to have buried shit-grenades in it that will cover the whole garage comprehensively in a six-inch-thick coating of reeking guano. Fuckssake.

He doesn’t bother with an explanation when he pretty much kicks the door to Dany’s motorhome open and growls “Hotel, now.”

Dany’s only too happy to accompany him, already out of race gear and with a book in his hand that Carlos suspects he’s read absolutely none of but stared at plenty, since retiring.

They clatter down the motorhome steps, hands slightly too close to each other’s bodies for the country they’re in but it’s a short enough walk, done fast enough that by the time they tumble into Dany’s room they’re still mostly dressed. Which is not a sustainable situation.

Dany pulls Carlos’ fireproofs over his head and Carlos _almost_ feels bad about remembering he hasn’t showered yet before he sees his teammate’s openly hungry, appreciative expression and hears him breathe “Chili” in something close to a moan, like not fucking Carlos yet is causing him physical pain, “Chili I am glad we’re here. I’m happy.”

Carlos feels like his chest is going to burst - yes, they’ve had a shitty day, yes, he could misinterpret it as Dany just wanting to fuck his undeniably hot body but he knows that’s not it and it means _a lot._ It means they’re going to work together this year, it means he’s not just got Dany’s brain in automatic mode, he’s got a _teammate._

Who he is going to fuck, right now. All-fucking-ready.

“I told you,” he’s smiling against Dany’s chest, having snuggled against him in appreciation, “Is good.”

He pushes Dany back onto the bed, steps back to wriggle out of the rest of his race suit and pull the Russian’s trousers off, pleased to discover he’s not wearing underwear, giving him a raised eyebrow in response, as he crawls to straddle him. He receives an only-very-faintly apologetic grin in response and then a blissed out noise when he finally grinds down and it’s _so good._

“How do y-”

“Like this. Fuck me?” He’s been thinking about it a lot, about Dany’s fingers stretching him out, about how Dany will look when he’s coming because Carlos’ ass is _too fucking awesome._ It’s going to be amazing.

Dany fumbles in the bedside cabinet for lube and condoms and Carlos _considers_ giving him a shoulder-punch for being presumptuously over-prepared but actually it’s fucking convenient so he’ll let him get away with it so long as he _hurries the fuck up._ Carlos tries a bit more grinding and an only slightly exaggerated moan to give his teammate the idea.

He was so right about Dany’s fingers feeling _really good_ \- the Russian is careful and gentle, holding Carlos to him and peppering his throat with soft kisses whilst he’s working him open. Carlos feels hot and slick all over and obscenely over-exposed, leaning forward with his ass up and Dany’s fingers inside him, their cocks rubbing together between Carlos’ slick thighs. He’s sobbing because it feels amazing and he can tell Dany’s smug as fuck about it, in that horny way he can wipe off his face as soon as Carlos gets on his dick because he _knows_ that’s going to blow his mind.

“En-enough, get in me,” Dany kisses him tenderly, strokes Carlos’ face as he withdraws his fingers and hisses with need when Carlos rolls the condom down his cock, mumbling ‘Chili’ again and again, eyes closed.

Carlos doesn’t fuck about, he might not have Fernando’s thirst for a fight but he knows how to use his own ego as a sex move, taking Dany’s cock in one, long, gorgeous thrust. Ugh, it’s exactly as good as he hoped - Dany’s eyes are closed, his hands resting on Carlos’ hips to stop him moving yet, clearly fighting not to come already.

Which is good, because Carlos is about one second of having his dick touched away from coming. He moves anyway, drawing an uncontrolled moan out of his teammate and this is going to be over in under a minute, which is _fine_ because the advantage of being the junior team is round two can’t be more than 20 minutes off and oh god, _oh god._

Dany is falling apart in exactly the way he’d imagined - head tipped back to show a long blush on his throat, hands grasping and rubbing at Carlos’ thighs, until Carlos makes a sharp move and _somehow,_ and god this is why he _wants him_ _,_ the perfect bastard gets a hand on his dick, tugs him through his orgasm even as he’s shaking apart beneath him.

It takes a little while for them to come down. Dany is nuzzling at Carlos where he’s fallen forwards, murmuring affection in languages Carlos doesn’t speak and he appreciates the assist when Dany rolls them over, pulls out and throws the condom away, spoons up around him.

Carlos pillows himself on Dany’s arm, makes a mental note to continue the feeding programme. He can feel his teammate snuggling up behind him, self-conscious again now and Carlos hums in post-coital pleasure, to encourage him - a man needs to be held, sometimes, after his fucking suspension betrays him.

“We are going to,” he yawns gently against Dany’s arm, “fucking beat them. So hard.”


End file.
